The Foolishness of Youth
by RandomW07
Summary: Friendships are difficult when you're a nation. No matter what you desire, your people always come first, and alliances are never set in stone. It takes Norway a long time to realise this, and even longer to accept it.


**Warnings: Death (though they don't stay dead), unpleasant ways to die (including decapitation), and some graphic descriptions of violence. **

**Please enjoy!**

* * *

The first time they meet, they try to kill each other.

Their bosses are chatting out of earshot, hidden from sight inside a tent surrounded by a sea of warriors. They were quick to dismiss the young nations, deeming them not yet old enough to have a say in the matters they wish to discuss. A ridiculous reasoning, in Norway's opinion; he's older than the three of them combined, though his appearance suggests otherwise. Despite his displeasure, however, he knows better than to argue. Humans can be infuriatingly stubborn when they want to be.

Still, that doesn't mean he has to be pleased to keep the older personifications company. He's known Denmark for a while now, finds him just as irritating as he did the day they met. A loud, boisterous, immature southerner who delights in dragging Norway into all kinds of trouble. A self-declared "best friend" has no need for. He can't necessarily blame him for his clinginess, however. After all, before today, neither of them had met any other immortal. Oh, they'd speculated they couldn't be the only two, had shared rumours about a Roman warrior who had emerged victorious from countless battles throughout history, but hadn't actually met someone else like them. It's only natural they would grow close.

As expected, Denmark wastes no time in voicing his displeasure at the current situation. After all, he looks almost ten years of age; why _shouldn't_ he have a say? His complaints rise in volume with every word as he gestures with vigour, his hands a blur of activity. His boots stamp against the dirt beneath him, emphasizing his discontent. Norway easily blocks him out, as custom dictates.

The new nation, on the other hand, isn't yet used to the Dane's senseless rambles, so stares at him with a frown on his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he struggles to follow Denmark's train of thought. Norway doesn't like him. Only a few years younger than Denmark, yet he towers over him, made all the more intimidating by his dark gaze that sends shivers down Norway's spine. He doesn't talk much, nor is he a fighter. This last element surprises Norway, not only because he could probably crush a person's neck in one hand, but because his boss is perfectly content to leave him in a farm somewhere, without an escort. As a nation, shouldn't he stand by his leader's side at all times?

Although he sums it up to cultural differences, it continues to disturb him. Jealous sparks in his mind. Lucky him, free to go wherever he pleases, while Norway is herded from place to play like a sheep.

His gaze must linger for too long, as Sweden finally takes notice. His eyes narrow, that intimidating stare now trying to burn holes in his brain. Norway edges closer to Denmark slightly, as discreetly as possible, praying neither his friend nor the stranger notice. It's embarrassing, that something as small as a glare would have him cowering. He _is_ a viking, after all. He's seen war, tasted battle, died from disease and famine, this child shouldn't scare him. But this isn't a normal child. Sweden is a nation, not a human, which makes him terrifying.

Unfortunately, his discrete actions don't go unnoticed. Denmark falters in his speech, mouth thinning into a suspicious frown, a frown that only deepens when he notices what's causing this behaviour. Unfortunately, unlike Norway, tactful decisions have never come naturally to him.

"Why're you looking at Norge funny?"

"M'not."

Another reason Norway doesn't trust the stranger: his accent. It's a strange mishmash of vowels and consonants that flow unevenly and rumble in the back of his throat. Norway can't even tell whether Sweden's speaking his own language or butchering Norway's.

"You are! I saw you!"

Voices rise over the quiet murmurs coming from their bosses' tent as tempers flare up. It turns out that Sweden is just as hot-headed as Denmark, and soon both boys are in each other's faces, hurling their insults freely. Norway watches them silently, half amused, half irritated. And here he was thinking he was supposed to be the youngest...

The amusement shatters when his idiotic friend launches himself at Sweden. In a flash, the two become entwined, an indistinguishable tangle of limbs as they exchange punches, kicks and bites that will leave them covered in bruises, with bloody noses and split lips. Norway carefully steps out of their way as the humans quickly take notice and try to pull them apart. Even held tightly by their people, they continue to spit curses at one another. It takes their bosses' angry shouts for them to finally stop fighting.

Thus, begins a long rivalry, and, strangely enough, an even longer friendship.

Denmark brags for the remainder of the evening about how easily he won the fight, while Sweden sits with his head held high, neither admitting defeat. Their bosses, on the other hand, are less proud of their spat, and pull them aside for a long lecture about responsibility and diplomacy. Even then, neither boy attempts to apologize.

Much to Norway's annoyance, he's also pulled aside for a scolding. Despite his protests, he's forced to listen to a boring speech reminding him of his roles as a nation and how he should act around other nations.

"You should know better than to provoke them," his boss sternly reminds him.

At the time, Norway finds this rebuke unfounded and unfair. He still does centuries later, although by then he's heard that argument so many times the heat has long since left his voice when he denies it.

In following meetings, he's tasked with keeping the two unruly children out of trouble, a nigh impossible task that takes years for him to master. He's never been more grateful for Denmark's easily distracted mind as he has during those times. As he ages, he learns to stop that fights with a simple shout, and, later on, to cut off with their arguments with an exasperated sigh, a talent that will come in handy over the course of their existence.

As their countries grow closer, the three nations meet up more and more regularly; so regularly, in fact, that killing each other on sight becomes tiresome. Instead, they chase each other around their ports and share epic tales of adventure. Denmark never ceases to let his imagination run wild, coming up with stranger and more reckless ideas with every encounter. At first, Norway mocks these silly ideas, but as time goes by, goes along with them automatically. He's not used to acting like a child. Oh, he's treated as such by his people, but he isn't permitted to play with the other children, forced to follow his boss wherever he goes. With Denmark, and Sweden, to a lesser extent, he can finally _be_ a child, which turns out less bothersome than he first thought it would.

Sweden, he discovers, isn't as bad as he originally thought. He has a knack for crafting things out of wood, and makes them toys to play with and pretty sculptures Norway delights in crafting a story around. He's a gentle giant, appreciating silence, yet not devoid of intelligent conversation. It is with Sweden that he divulges his worries of nationhood and with Sweden that he muses about what other people like them could be like and how dangerous they may be.

The friendship they build over the years hints at peace and prosperity for their respective countries. Despite the rivalry between Denmark and Sweden, which has eventually devolved into friendly competition between the two, they believe their friendship will stay strong for all of eternity, until their mountains sink to the ocean floor and their people no longer remember their names.

In the centuries to come, Norway will laugh bitterly at how foolish he used to be, at how naive they once were.

* * *

The first time Denmark kills Sweden, Norway watches from the doorway.

He holds Iceland close with shaky arms. His little brother cries into his shirt, hands covering his ears, muffled pleas for them to stop spilling out his mouth. He shouldn't be witness to these depraved acts of violence. Neither should Finland, who cowers in a corner, wide-eyed in terror, inhuman sounds tearing out of his throat. Both are only children. Then again, the monsters they live with are only teenagers themselves.

Denmark stands over the corpse, chest heaving, blood smeared over his face, eyes glazed over in blind fury. He favours one leg over the other as he turns on his heels and limps to his chambers. He doesn't snap to be left alone this time, although he shoves Norway in passing.

His sudden departure releases a tension in the room, but no one moves. Norway stares at Sweden's lifeless body, mind whirring with white noise. It isn't his first time coming across his corpse, it isn't even the worst state he's seen him in, but it's not right. He shouldn't die. Not like this. Nausea clings to the back of Norway's throat as he takes in the extent of his injuries. A crushed nose, blood that drips down from the cracks in his head, the dented skull... twisted limbs that need to be set, the awkward angles in which his fingers stick out... Messy. Unpleasant. It will take him a while to recover.

They hadn't listened to him. He'd screamed at them to stop. He'd tried to physically separate the two, only to be shoved into the table as though he were nothing more than an irritating fly. Still they had continued to hurl punches and kicks at each other, slamming the other into the furniture, the wall, the floor, the window, again and again and again. Finally, Denmark had gained the upper hand, bashed Sweden's head into the wall repeatedly until the twitching in his limbs ceased.

Norway's shoulder aches from the impact, his hip already starting to bruise. When had his friends lost their humanity? When had he become so weak?

Not for the first time, Norway's glad for the decision that only a select few should be aware of their status. He doubts the Swedish nobility would be pleased to learn their personification has been slaughtered by the Danish nation. Things are tense enough, without nations complicating things even more.

It's the first time the two have fought so violently. Before tonight, their arguments have resulted in a broken nose or two, a sprained wrist, bloody knuckles. Nothing that requires major treatment. Not once has it resulted in death. It disgusts Norway. Deep down, he knows they can't help it, that they're not human. Their emotions are linked to those of their people, their government, their boss. But that reasoning terrifies him, so he chooses to ignore it and instead condemns the monsters they've become.

The world is painted in grey, whispers to him to leave the scene and sleep until the storm blows over. Reluctantly, he ignores its sweet beckoning, instead coaxing Iceland to his room. The child trembles, biting his lip, tears spilling freely down his cheeks. He clings to Norway as though his life depends on it, refusing to let go, silently begging his brother to stay with him, just for tonight. If only Norway could place his little brother before anyone else...

Gently, he pries Iceland's fingers from his shirt and tucks him under the thick quilt he made all those years ago, when life was simpler. He sings the old epics until the child's eyes flutter shut and his breathing slows. A kiss to the crown of his head and he leaves him to slumber, safe until the nightmares bring him to tears once more.

By the time he returns to the room where Sweden rests, Finland has already started to clean him up, a tub of hot water at his side and a roll of bandages on his lap. Norway doesn't care much for the sniveling little boy who follows Sweden around like a lost puppy, but he doesn't deny he has his uses.

"Is Islanti okay?" Finland's voice wavers, as it always does when he talks to him.

"He's asleep. Probably best we check up on him regularly. I trust you can clean up Sverige?"

The boy nods, although his eyes glitter with unsaid reproaches.

"You're going to help Tanska, aren't you?"

Norway doesn't deign his question with a response. He cares little about what Finland thinks of him. He's heard the rumours spread about the nature of the relationship between Denmark and him. Not once has he been bothered by their accusations, and now is no exception. He does pity them, however, for failing to understand the intricacies of friendship, for seeing everything under the vile taint of romance.

Denmark's chambers are draped in darkness when he enters, all light emanating from the outside world blocked by thick curtains. Denmark himself stands in the center of the room, unmoving, gaze fixed on something beyond Norway's line of sight. He snaps a warning which Norway ignores.

It takes all his courage to tend to his injuries under a mask of serenity, all his strength not to tremble from his friend's hostility. He utters no words of reassurance, no soothing murmurs meant to comfort him. And when Denmark collapses in his arms and starts to sob, he remains silent, though inside he screams.

He comes up with a thousand excuses to justify his friends' behaviour over the following years, each one more desperate and outlandish than the last. Not once does he spare a thought to the real reason, the fact that no matter what they like to pretend, they're nations first and foremost, perhaps because he desperately wishes that he's wrong, that their friendship isn't a fragile vase politics can and will shatter with a simple touch.

* * *

The first time Sweden kills Denmark, Norway only bears witness to the aftermath.

He stands still, hands raised, palms facing outwards in a sign of surrender. His gaze wavers from the decapitated corpse by his feet to the head that lies a few steps away, before flickering between Finland, who aims his crossbow at his heart, and Sweden, who does nothing more than glare. Shivers run down his spine, but he clenches his muscles, forces his body not to shake.

Guts spill out the slashed stomach, pooling out to become a sort of bed for the corpse to rest upon. Gashes tear his clothes, revealing the bloody wounds the sword left behind. As for Denmark's head... Norway can't bear to look at it for long. Lifeless blue eyes, usually so full of energy, stare blankly at the horizon, lips parted in a surprised "o". His face is marred with blood and bruises, unrecognizable to the man he was only a few hours ago.

Norway wants to throw up. He wants to scream. But if he makes a sound, Finland will swiftly put an end to his life. Iceland can't be the one to find them. He's too young to witness such brutal deaths. So instead, he gulps and keeps his lips sealed.

"We're leavin'," Sweden says.

Norway doesn't react. He dares to let disgust flicker across his face, trusting Sweden to see it and maybe feel ashamed. He doesn't suppose they could have left discretely, without butchering Denmark on their way out?

"He deserved it," Sweden adds, almost defensively.

Still Norway remains silent, his raised eyebrow sufficient to display his disapproval. Disappointment weighs heavily in his stomach, not because Sweden is leaving - he was bound to at some point, it's honestly surprisingly he hadn't left sooner - but because of the mangled corpse he leaves to remember him by. It sickens Norway to see the depraved monster that has devoured him. It sickens him to see Denmark's dead eyes staring blankly into the void, to see his head detached from the rest of his body.

"Come with us."

"No."

The word lingers in the air, soft yet devoid of feeling. Even if Norway dislikes the current state of affairs, how despite being a union of nations, he feels more and more like a province of Denmark, even if he loathes how weak he's become, his loyalty, both as a nation and a person, lies with his oldest friend. He won't abandon Denmark. Not like this.

Sweden is disappointed. His frown deepens, his shoulders stiffens. His sullen glare tries to pierce the walls he's put up over the years, but Norway returns it with a glare of his own. He can almost hear the accusations that gather on Sweden's tongue, prays he has the sense not to voice them. He'd rather they part on civil terms, without words meant to hurt.

"I see."

_No, you don't. You're too blind to see the truth even as it stares you in the face. You prefer to listen to rumours and gossip and interpret things based on the fictions they paint. _

He keeps his thoughts to himself, however, simply shrugs as he walks over to Denmark and crouches down, turning his back on the man he once called friend. He doesn't look up as their footsteps fade away, nor when they disappear completely. His hands curl into fists, nails digging dents into the cold skin of his palms, his throat clenches, but no tear gathers at the corner of his eye. He's too tired to mourn.

"Idiots," he mutters, the word dripping like venom from his tongue.

* * *

Over the next four hundred years, wars and civil unrest tramples over their friendship until it's nothing more than a tattered mess of strings Norway refuses to throw away. While Denmark and Sweden grow into strong young men, Norway finds himself trapped in a teenager's body. With every conflict, he finds it harder to know whether his lands belong to him, Denmark or Sweden. With every decision made without consulting him, with every world meeting in which his status is largely ignored, his pride flickers and uncertainty blooms in its stead.

Denmark rarely leaves his side, dragging him into politics, battle or trade wherever they go. He pesters him relentlessly, paranoid Norway will leave like Sweden did, desperate to win his praise. Yet, instead of doing anything useful, such as convincing his boss to lower their taxes, provide more food when famine strikes, or giving his language room to flourish, he fights with Sweden and either gets himself killed, or kills the Swede.

Sweden sends him regular letters he's forced to keep secret, each one a poorly hidden attempt to win his good graces. They try to tempt him with promises he will never be able to keep, try to manipulate him with mentions of little Iceland, condemn Denmark's actions and attitude with every word. Norway responds with curt sentences and cold rebuttals that never seem clear enough.

His friends' constant squabbling irritates him beyond measure, especially when half the time it's _his_ land they're fighting over. They care little for anything other than scoring points off each other, oblivious to the world around them. Though they both pretend to care for him, Norway knows he's nothing more than a pawn at best, a prize at worse.

Sweden kills him only once, an act of mercy after Finland leaves his body riddled with arrows, his lower half crushed by his horse. With pity in his eyes and a mumbled apology on his lips, he snaps his neck, putting a swift end to his suffering.

Denmark vows never to lay a hand on him. Even after an incident involving accusations of witchcraft leaves him with burns so deep his nerves no longer function, he refuses to put an end to his misery. Norway curses him with all his heart as he's forced to feel the agonising healing process his body goes through.

By the time he finally obtains his independence, the friendship between the three of them has long since crumbled to dust.

Norway convinces himself he doesn't care, that their friendship never mattered to him in the first place. He was an idiot, really, to think that they could still be friends, despite their status as nations. So used to humanity, he'd somehow forgotten how different he is to the humans he represents. A nation doesn't need friends, doesn't need family, exists solely to serve the people who give him life. Sweden and Denmark realised this centuries before him. Only now does he finally see it for himself.

Despite this, he stubbornly clings to his beliefs for a few more years, continuing to send Iceland letters that go ignored. He doesn't bother to send any to Denmark or Sweden, however. Denmark channeled his hurt to anger when Norway left, making it perfectly clear he never wanted to hear from him again. As for Sweden, their brief union has left a sour taste in both of their mouths, what with the Swede's constant brooding over the loss of Finland that left Norway way and truly alone in the alien city he suddenly found himself living in.

Only after the Second World War does he succumb to loneliness, ashamed at how easily he accepts the olive branch Denmark sends in the shape of beer and companionship. Only then to the three of them make up somewhat. After all, an eternity is much too long to hold a grudge for.

* * *

Nowadays, the hostility between them is a ghost of the past. They meet up regularly for business and pleasure, at both their government's request and their own free will. They spend Christmas together, and sometimes the New Year, sharing stories when the children are asleep and getting so drunk, they start speaking old Norse and pass out in a tangle of limbs on the sofa.

With the arrival of new technologies, they create group chats only Denmark is really active on, stay in touch via text and email. Norway loses count of the number of calls he receives from Denmark in which his old friend complains for hours on end about something Sweden did. He also loses track of the number of texts Sweden sends him in which he points out just how infuriating Denmark can be. Both fully expect him to be able to do something about it. Amusing, considering how useless he's been at stopping their fights lately.

Yet as the years fly by, the number of complaints they send him decreases, as they learn to live with the other's flaws. Norway welcomes the newfound peace, has forgotten how nice it can be to discuss the sea, their people, nature, their hobbies, the pleasant sides of life.

It takes him longer than he's comfortable admitting to get used to the notion of equality among the three of them. After centuries of resigning himself to the fact he's beneath them, it's odd to suddenly stand on equal footing again. And, with equality comes confusion. Are they really friends? Or is he just a confident to them, a caretaker of some sorts? Do they appreciate his company or are they simply used to his presence?

He eventually puts his worries to rest, reassured by the small words and gestures that remind him he's part of the family despite the distance he now puts between them and him.

They've changed as people, though they remain the same at their core. Sweden is still the gentle giant he used to be, who scares people with his glare and sculpts toys for Sealand to play with. Denmark is still the noisy optimist who dedicates his life to cheering up those around him, who pesters Norway will phone calls and hourly texts to ensure he isn't feeling lonely, who gets into fights for the adrenaline boost or gives him. Both are still headstrong and lack common sense. Complete and utter idiots, Norway likes to call them, though he can't help but still be fond of them.

Of course, they still frustrate him. Their childish antics and the silly ideas they always find a way to drag him into him never ceases to fuel his irritation. Nonetheless, they're his friends, his family even. And no matter what their history has tainted, no matter how their duty as nations pushes them apart, friends they'll stay.

_Until our maintains sink to the ocean floor and our people no longer remember our names. _

The old words bring a smile to his lips. Foolish words spoken by naive children. And still he believes them.

"Idiot," he chides.


End file.
